Arhh returning to the tale restores the former pain I bore for many years. I claim not to be a great man; nor even a good one, but in determining if or if not I am a monster please consider the facts concerning me for my is truly good. You see me fall at the foot of a king. in motions wrought with servitude.

No one, at this point in life, is able to choose the physical traits they are born with. I have wept a thousand tears and weep yet a thousand more for it hurts the love so deeply and have no affections returned to you. i suppose I operated the belief that those closest to you cannot be trusted. And how this proved true with my wife! I loved her! Oh how I love her, yet she could not bare coming to terms with the truth of what and who I truly am. The truth of the matter is though is that, “she never loved [me]” or cared for me in any regard, and so betrayed me.

I was only first received by anyone for that matter, by the king himself. The king was able to me for the good man that I am and was overjoyed to see his knight. If nothing else, one must grant me a degree of loyalty, of iron steadfastness. I assure you that I understand the privilege of being so near and dear to the king. However, I do wish that someday a woman would love me with the kind of love which all seek: romance.

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About Bisclavret

My wildness is the fault of my childhood books, I imagine. I read book after book, and they poured like a cascade through me. The world captivated me and I took life and beauty with a fierce relish. Exploration, too, was a high priority: I am blessed with an inner restlessness that refuses to be satiated. When I graduated high school in Texas, I packed up my wanderlust and moved out to California to attend Azusa Pacific University to intensify my love of knowledge and the arts. My plan then was to physically help people, rid the world of disease, and ultimately change the world: all armed with a Bachelor’s of Science. Senior year came and passed with a vicious rapidity, and in the hectic mix of it, what I’d thought all my life—to be a doctor, like my Dad—sort of hit me in the face, as I was staring at it, in a mirror. Can you, really, my face said to itself, live the rest of your life in a state of resignation, constricting that untamable passion by years of residency for a profession that is noble, yes, but not the nobility of those of your ilk? Write, man—you must write. I had studied abroad in New Zealand during college, watering and simultaneously whetting my need for growth and adventure. I challenged societal norms there, I climbed high mountains there, and I met people who changed the rest of my life there. I formed a need write as well as read there: I needed to not only imbibe, but also imbue others with all the overflow of my heart. Write, untamable man—you must write. And when I came home to California, I met a girl who is truly extraordinary. Even in our first conversation she opened my heart with her love of my favorite author, and as we talked about literature together springs emerged in our hearts and became a single stream. Needless to say, when she moved back to Boston I followed her, we married, and we built a life together—a life full of books, actually. While we dated we frequented book sales usually in libraries that sneaks and flows from one room to the next, untamable. Now she supports me in my dream to write, to read, to study literature full time, and some days it is tough. We knew it would be. But, like all untamable men, I follow my loves and dreams and, hence, we are unstoppable. And I am here. Standing on this soil with one hallowed phrase eternally echoing in mind: untamable man—you must write. And so I do.

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